


Dark before Dawn

by darkangel1211



Series: Dark Before Dawn [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Coming Out, Different First Time, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Haven (Dragon Age), M/M, Riding, mild dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-10 12:30:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5585410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel1211/pseuds/darkangel1211
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I ordered the people of Haven to seek their pleasures tonight,” the elf says, reaching up with his right hand until his fingers hover in front of Dorian’s mouth, but not yet touching. “I have yet to find my own before the dawn arrives.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark before Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So this is my first foray into the Dragon Age universe, but I love this pairing so much I couldn't resist it =)
> 
> My Inquisitor has the British accent for point of reference, otherwise everything is listed in the tags. This work doesn't have a beta, so please let me know if you spot any errors.
> 
> Finally, the title is taken from an album by Breaking Benjamin (as I copiously listened to their music when writing this).
> 
> Enjoy! xxx

It may not have always worked in his family’s best interests, but Dorian has always prided himself on his observational skills. Living in Tevinter gave him more of an incentive to hone them at the very least, since a man with his desires could never be too careful when it concerned sexual advances from other men. There was often always something more to it than fucking; more than a mutual need to get each other off as quickly as possible before the other man’s wife became aware of his dalliances on the side.

Not that Dorian had any issues with this in the past. He’s been a port in a storm before, but it’s much more likely that the man he chooses to bed wants something from the Pavus household, something which doesn’t always mean shagging Dorian until they’re both spent. None of it has reached back to his father, not in a monetary value at least, but it does mean he’s had plenty of practice in reading what people want from him, often before they vocalise that intent.

So when he meets the Herald of Andraste, a rogue Dalish elf with a mysterious green mark on his left hand, there’s no mistaking the intent when bright silver eyes sweep his body from head to toe, the Herald’s face doing little to disguise his own curiosity at the strange Tevinter mage battling demons in the Redcliffe Chantry.

The ensuing battle proved to be fertile ground for observation on both sides, Dorian remembers fondly. The Herald had barely paused before drawing his daggers, his form vanishing into the shadows so he could flank the enemy. Dorian had used the little time available to watch the spritely elf leap between foes, ruthlessly taking down one demon after another and utilising the skills of his party to keep the attention off of him as he delivered killing blows from behind. Dorian was quick to add his own magic to the fray, stunning demons with lightning bolts so the Herald could sink his daggers into them, Dorian’s own body moving with a freedom he hadn’t experienced since his first lessons in mage-craft as a young boy.

It had been a beautiful, deadly dance and, like most things of that nature, it had finished far too quickly.

Once the Rift had been closed and the air had calmed somewhat, Dorian wasn’t sure at the time that he hadn’t imagined the entire thing. Not the battle itself (he still had the bloodstains on his robes to prove the existence of that), but more about the look the Herald had given him prior to the fight. An appraising glance was one thing, but he dared not think of anything else when it came to the leader of the Inquisition.

That being said, it didn’t deter his decision to join the Inquisition’s forces once Alexius had been dealt with, their fascinating trek through time cementing Dorian’s belief that the Inquisition was the only thing which stood between them and total annihilation under the hands of an all-powerful Elder One. It helped that the elf leading them was an easy sight to behold, the Breach’s light reflecting in long white hair that was customarily pulled back into a braid that hung down the Herald’s back. Dorian has never seen it undone, but the long fringe left out on a side-parting does give the Herald a devilishly rakish look; Dorian’s fingers often itch to stroke through that length of unbound hair, just to see if it’s as silky as it looks.

(He’s willing to bet the weight of his coin purse with Varric that it is).

Complete the image with kohl-lined eyes and a narrow, pale face decorated in dark blue tattoos denoting a Dalish heritage and Dorian doesn’t even begin to wonder when he was utterly lost under the Herald’s thrall. Fixated is the word that springs to mind, but it’s hard not to be when the man himself is so arresting. He seizes any area he enters with an aura that Dorian has only ever seen from Magisters in Tevinter, but it’s no surprise when the elf literally has the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Those shoulders are never slumped in tiredness, nor are there signals to denote weariness of any kind, but Dorian can only imagine the knots those muscles are caught up in. Imagines all the ways those knots could be released during cold, sleepless nights on an uncomfortable bed, listening to the hustle and bustle of Haven outside his window.    

Imagines, but never says.     

Not even when the Herald visits him after their diverting trip to the future, finally sharing a name along with a meagre supper in the safety of Haven’s walls. The Herald, Feredir Lavellan, didn’t make any apologies for the size of the meal; he’d simply divided the food between them and sat with Dorian on the steps leading down to the Chantry, making a point of getting to know the people he would be travelling with in the days to come.

The conversations had gracefully unfolded themselves until Dorian had almost forgotten where he was. Tales of Tevinter blood magic and political conspiracies were the main topics of discussion during those hours, each voicing their opinion freely and without judgement, but underneath it all was a burning interest on the Herald’s part, one that wouldn’t be satisfied with a mere yes or no answer. Dorian himself had been intrigued on the elf’s origins, stating that they never really had Dalish clans travelling northward for one to learn from, but Feredir had just given him an amused smile that Dorian immediately wanted to taste.  It was almost enough for him to ignore the blasted hole in the sky which was threatening to devour the world and the harsh winter cold that seeped its way into Dorian’s bones every night.

Almost.

Still, hole in the sky or not, Haven was a nice change from camping in a tent in the middle of the war-torn Hinterlands.

Looking back, Dorian realises it’s been nearly three weeks since the Herald chose to take the Mages under the Inquisition’s protection and the mage is still surprised at his own place within Feredir’s circle. Since he joined the Inquisition, the Herald has specifically asked for his aid in protecting the people of the Hinterlands, often leaving Haven for days at a time to carry out requisition orders and closing the odd demon-spouting rift on the way. They’re nowhere near where they need to be to stop the Templars and Mages trying to kill each other, but they need to start somewhere and Feredir isn’t perturbed by their slow progress. He always seems to find time for everyone, seeking out people to assist in whatever way he can.

Like giving a runaway Tevinter mage food, shelter and a choice between doing something that mattered and something because it’s what his parents are expecting of him.

Not that the Herald is aware of the second part, but Dorian knows it’s only a matter of time until his family find out where he’s disappeared to (word must have reached their ears by now), but, for now, he’s as free as a free man should be.

He wonders why is that thought on its own is so terrifying but can’t bring himself to question it.

Without warning the door to his quarters opens, admitting the Herald himself and jolting Dorian from his unwelcome thoughts. Dorian takes a moment to absorb the other man’s appearance, watching the way the he’s panting to get his breath back. Feredir looks run off his feet, quite literally in this case, but he seems to be in good spirits this morning, the chill of the wind staining his cheeks with its bite. He looks like a wild thing amidst all the snow and ice, his braid coming undone towards the end and leaving strands of hair hanging around his face and down his back. It’s a slow, sordid tease, leaving his hair half undone like that; all Dorian wants to do is unwrap the braid in its entirety, coaxing those strands apart until they fall like a white waterfall down the Herald’s back.    

“Are you ready?” Feredir asks, his voice just as breathless as the rest of him, all deep tenor and barely suppressed excitement. They’re going back into the Hinterlands to find the Templars main camp; Leliana’s spies must have returned with news.

No wonder Feredir’s excited.

Dorian grins to hide the shiver the cold weather gives him, reaching over and grabbing his staff. “Anything to keep the frostbite at bay,” he replies, checking his supplies once more. “Can we try to avoid the river this time? Algae stains are a pain in the arse to remove.”

The answering smile Feredir gives him doesn’t console Dorian in the slightest.      

oOo

“The Mages are ready at your command,” Cullen says to Feredir, crossing his arms across his chest. Feredir nods, listening as Cullen starts firing off statistics concerning their numbers.

Dorian stays to one side inside the Chantry, along with Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine. He’s barely paying attention as the group finalise their preparations, more interested in watching the Herald as he listens to his advisors. Dorian has counselled Feredir in everything he knows about the time magic Alexius used against them, but the Breach is an unknown force that they’ve never dealt with before. Haven is abound with rumours that the Herald is going to try and close the Breach, but the Herald’s Inner Circle still sound somewhat divided on the subject.

“The Templars that have joined our ranks will be on the lookout for any abominations at the Temple, but we still don’t know how this influx of magic will react with your Mark,” Cullen continues. “We must do everything we can to ensure your safety.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that we must try,” Cassandra says to Cullen. “The Herald’s Mark was caused by the Breach and we’ve successfully closed Rifts all over the Hinterlands. It stands to reason that the same should hold true for the Breach itself.”

“But we can’t guarantee whether our plans will work-”

“We cannot simply do _nothing-”_

The elf’s face draws out in a frown as Cullen and Cassandra bicker around him; this close, Dorian can see the way Feredir’s head shakes slightly in exasperation and Dorian can’t help but agree with him. In all the weeks since Dorian’s known him, this is the first time he’s ever seen Feredir with an air of frustration; it’s unsettling, but not unexpected. Surely they must have come to an agreement by now?

Evidentially it all becomes too much for the elf and Feredir puts himself between Cullen and Cassandra, each getting a hand on their shoulders to push them apart. “Either we close the Breach now, or it destroys everything in its path,” he says, halting their argument in its tracks. “If it’s a choice between dying quickly now or dying slowly later, I know which one I would choose.” He pauses, rubbing at his eyes with tired fingers. “Cullen, you said our forces are ready. As prepared as they’ll ever be, yes? Then send the order out. The Inquisition moves at first light tomorrow.”

His advisors all nod their acquiescence when Feredir gives them a questioning look, some looking more troubled than others, but unwilling to deny the Herald’s order. They all turn away as one to fulfil their duties until Feredir stops them once more. “Tell our people to seek out their pleasantries tonight,” he says, voice softer now that the final decision has been made. “We’ve all done enough.”

A grim silence meets Feredir’s words, but nothing is said to deny it. Dorian watches as they all drift away, leaving Feredir standing alone in the middle of the Chantry, looking both at peace with his actions and completely bone-weary from the very thought of them. The image itself is startling; one of a lone elf in a building which ultimately stands against everything he believes in and Dorian is once again reminded of how terribly alone the Herald actually is.

Sent by Andraste or not, the man before him is capable of great things, but it’s not impossible for someone to break under all that tension. Maker knows how the elf manages it, but Dorian has never thought to question it before. Not because he doubts Feredir’s ability to deal with it, but because the Maker couldn’t possibly be that cruel to a person, human or otherwise.

“It’s difficult for them to understand when they haven’t seen it first-hand,” he says placating, pushing himself off of the pillar and walking towards the elf. “They have no idea what will happen if the Breach remains.”

Feredir sighs, closing his eyes and palming a hand across his face. “We’ve given them all we can,” he replies, opening his eyes and meeting Dorian’s own. “Creators, but I’ve pushed everyone too hard. You should get some rest before you fall over.”

Dorian presses a hand to his own chest, a look of affront on his face. “Do I honestly look so terrible? I must admit, it’s been so long since I last looked in a mirror that you can hardly blame me for my appearance.” He pauses, giving the Herald a small smile. “But you are right. I shall retire to my quarters, only as long as you do the same,” he says, letting his eyes linger on the elf’s face and the tiny wrinkles around Feredir’s eyes which show his own fatigue. “We can’t have you passing out before we reach the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I might have to carry you.”

Feredir huffs, a smile curving his lips. “That’ll hardly be a challenge for you. I’m lighter than I look.”

“Hmmm. You’re spritely, I’ll give you that. Not sure about light though.” Dorian smiles again, which quickly morphs into a yawn. He hadn’t actually realised how tired he was. “Well then, I will see you in the morning, no doubt. Good night, Herald.”

Feredir’s own good night is low and soft as Dorian walks away, opening the Chantry doors to admit a cold blast of air and the occasional snowflake. He turns back one final time, just catching the elf as he wanders into his own room which is safely ensconced within the Chantry’s walls, and wonders if either of them will be catching any sleep tonight.  

oOo

Dorian loves lying in during the mornings. It’s something that a pampered heir comes to expect in Tevinter, especially one of Dorian’s bloodline, so it came as something of a shock when Feredir used to loudly knock on his door with orders to accompany him to the Hinterlands before the sun had even risen. Not an unwelcome one, certainly, but it still took some getting used to until he started to wake early on his own.

The very fact that he’s woken from his rest with the moon still out also says a lot about his awareness, if he could be bothered to analyse it. Dorian knows it’s too early to be awake now, so it’s something of a surprise when he looks up at his bedroom window to find that it’s actually open, and, more importantly, someone is balanced on his windowsill and blocking some of the moonlight coming into Dorian’s bedroom.

The mage nearly falls from his bed in a blind panic when the figure drops to the floor without a sound, nimble and elegant, and it’s only when the moon’s light reflects on dark blue tattoos and quicksilver eyes that Dorian realises who it is. Maker’s mercy, but the Herald is quiet on his feet. “Make some noise will you,” he says gruffly, trying to calm his rapidly thumping heart. “Sod the Elder One, _you’re_ going to be the cause of my untimely demise at this rate.”

Feredir doesn’t say anything, but a small smile curves his lips, and it’s a marvel what it does to the other man’s face. His whole expression transforms into something light and airy when he smiles; it does something funny to Dorian’s insides every time he sees it. When paired with the Herald’s black leather armour lined with royal blue silk (a luxury bestowed by an Orlesian nobleman), the elf becomes something straight out of dark Tevinter fables. Said fables do like twisting stories of Dalish assassins who creep into the Imperium to free their enslaved brethren, but Dorian’s only ever considered them fables in the past.

The elf in question seems to like blowing all his past assumptions beyond recognition.

Dorian meets the Herald’s smile with one of his own, pushing himself up to a sitting position with his sheets pooled around his waist. He fights the urge to rub his arms against the chill when the wind blows in from outside, but Feredir makes no move to close the window.

_An easy fix…_

Dorian mutters a cast under his breath and the wind cuts off as a clear barrier is put into place around the window. It won’t obstruct the moonlight, but it will keep some of the heat from escaping, a sorely needed resource in Dorian’s very humble opinion. Feredir’s eyes glance up at the barrier but he makes no move towards it, the silver in his eyes catching the moon’s rays as his night vision comes into action. Dorian has always wondered how the world looks to Feredir in the dark, how clear he is to the elf now.     

A question for another time.

“You are aware that when I said I’d retire to my quarters just as long as you did the same, I didn’t mean it quite as literally as this,” he says instead, motioning to the elf with one hand. “Not that I’m complaining. Still, if you fancied a chat, all you had to do was ask. Has sleep eluded you?”

Feredir gives a brief shake of his head, his gaze centring on Dorian. It’s only than that the mage realises he’s sat up in bed with his upper body on full display to the Herald’s eyes. The shivers from the wind hadn’t fully materialised from before, but his skin is still dotted with goose-bumps and his nipples are peaked; he can already feel the ache in them against the cold’s bite but makes no move to relieve them. The Herald’s eyes drop to half mast, his focus narrowing down to Dorian’s chest, and the mage suddenly feels quite… _exposed._

Slipping out of his boots, Feredir puts them to one side before he comes around to the right of Dorian’s bed, putting himself between the bed and the window. It casts the elf’s face into shadow once more before the other man perches himself on the edge of Dorian’s mattress almost next to the mage, turning so his profile faces Dorian directly. “We cannot know for sure what the morning will bring,” Feredir says quietly, removing his gloves to uncover long, delicate fingers. The Mark flares upon its reveal, but the elf shows no sign that it’s hurting him anymore and Dorian can’t bring himself to care when Feredir looks up at him beneath long lashes with an unmistakable heat. “I ordered the people of Haven to seek their pleasures tonight,” the elf says, reaching up with his right hand until his fingers hover in front of Dorian’s mouth, but not yet touching. “I have yet to find my own before the dawn arrives.”

_Maker’s breath…_

Does Feredir actually mean what Dorian thinks he means?

Dorian takes the hand hovering in front of him in one of his own, feeling the heat seep into his skin. He gives into temptation and brings the Herald’s fingers to his lips, inhaling the scents of warm leather and the medicinal elf-root that the other man insists on harvesting during their travels. Closing his eyes, he guides the elf’s hand until his mouth is cradled in the other man’s palm, Feredir’s fingers stroking across his cheek. Opens his eyes again and pulls back but doesn’t drop Feredir’s hand, keeping it close as he meets Feredir’s eyes. “Do you desire my company tonight?”

It’s a blunt question, perhaps too blunt for a man of Dorian’s talents, but he can’t bring himself to sugar-coat it for the Herald’s sake. It’s alarming how easily the other man draws the honesty out of him, but he’s powerless to prevent it when the elf before him has never uttered a lie, believing them and their ilk to be nonsensical things that are more trouble than their actual worth.             

It makes the Herald’s next words all the more arresting, especially when the elf easily shifts his body until he’s straddling Dorian’s hips, pressing close and tilting Dorian’s face up so he can brush their lips together. The contact, brief as it is, still shoots through Dorian’s body with all the power of a lightning strike, his nerves frayed and tingling where the Herald’s lips touched him. “I would know you in all ways,” Feredir breathes, his hands stroking across Dorian’s shoulders and up to cup his face, a thumb sweeping across Dorian’s lower lip.

Dorian curls his arms around Feredir’s waist, his body already stirring at the intent behind the elf’s words as he chases that thumb to suck it between his lips, drawing a moan out of the man in his lap as he curls his tongue around the digit. Panting, Feredir pulls his thumb free and draws it over the mage’s lower lip, painting it in his saliva before lowering his own mouth to lick across Dorian’s lips. Dorian can’t resist it, tangling a hand in Feredir’s bound hair and pressing his lips to the elf’s to swallow their moans, nearly shuddering with desire when Feredir grinds his hips into Dorian’s body, a firming hardness making its presence known underneath Feredir’s armour.

Almost of their own volition, Dorian’s fingers seek out the belts and buckles keeping him from Feredir’s skin, each one undone with a care Dorian usually reserves for his magic. Slowly, the armour loosens around the elf’s lean frame until Dorian is able to slip his hands inside, pushing the leather back until Feredir’s torso is exposed. Dorian has seen Feredir like this before when he shared a tent with the other man in the Hinterlands, always struggling to keep his own desires in check as Feredir washed in nothing but his briefs. Now there’s nothing stopping him from stroking across the muscle which decorates the elf’s chest and abdomen, marvelling how such a lithe body can possess such power. He’s gorgeous, already slightly flushed and near panting when Dorian’s thumbs stroke across his nipples, the hardness in the Herald’s breeches thickening as Dorian teases him.

There’s so much Dorian wants to do, has imagined doing with an intensity that has left him breathless more than once, but there’re two things he cannot leave to chance, should this be the one and only night he spends in Feredir’s arms. His hands seize the braid at the base of Feredir’s back, fingers working to remove the leather strip holding it in place until he can start undoing the braid itself. Feredir arches his back, a silent encouragement to give Dorian better access as his hands inch their way up Feredir’s hair until the mass of white is hanging down the elf’s back. The mage strokes his fingers through it, marvelling at the softness and silently conceding that he would have won that non-existent bet with Varic, should Dorian have decided to share that knowledge with the dwarf in the first place.

He’s happy to admit that he feels more than a little covetous of the man in his bed, abandoning the elf’s breeches for now so he can pull them flush together, feeling Feredir gasp against him as his lips find the elf’s neck to kiss and lick at the pale length of it from ear to shoulder. His teeth follow soon after, not biting, but certainly with the intent of leaving a mark, suddenly needing to see his brand on the Herald’s skin. How scandalous and shocking it would be to the Chantry leaders, finding the supposed Herald of Andraste in the dreaded Tevinter mage’s bed. The thought of the shock on their faces gives Dorian more satisfaction than he’d thought previously, but he’s quick to remind himself that this is only for one night. Regardless of what happens tomorrow, he can’t bring himself to imagine that this is a long term venture on Feredir’s part. No, better to make the most of what he has now lest he become too entrenched; if his past has taught him anything, it’s just too dangerous to hope for something more.

Dorian pulls back when the elf’s gasps turn particularly laboured, admiring the darkened patch at the base of the Herald’s neck. The moon washes everything in silver but he knows the love bite will turn a brilliant shade of red, reminding them both of this night when the morning comes. There’s no need to advertise it as the mark will be hidden beneath Feredir’s armour, but it’s enough for the mage that they will both know it’s there.

Groaning, Feredir seizes Dorian’s lips again, his own teeth nipping at Dorian’s mouth. “Get these breeches off me before I become very upset with you.”

Being the good companion that he is, Dorian’s fingers find their way to the opening of the elf’s breeches, undoing the bindings and reaching inside to palm at the hot, hard length through Feredir’s briefs. They both moan in tandem when Dorian pushes the leather and briefs past the elf’s hips, his cock already wet at the tip when it brushes against Dorian’s abdomen. The rest of Feredir’s clothes disappear in a flurry when Dorian realises the elf is already leaking with excitement, more than eager to see the other man in all his naked glory.

Once he’s undressed, Feredir grabs the sheets around Dorian’s waist and pulls them free, leaving the mage just as bare as the elf. Dorian is completely unashamed in his nudity and often feels more comfortable this way; still, he feels his erection twitch when Feredir moans at the sight of Dorian’s own desire, already pulling the elf back to him and twining his fingers in silky strands to seize the elf’s mouth again.

Maker, but the elf is a good kisser. Although his frame is smaller than Dorian’s, he gives as good as he gets, using his sneaky assassin ways to keep Dorian guessing. It’s invigorating, being the focus of Feredir’s attentions, knowing that the elf wants to explore this new territory just as much as Dorian does in the way his hands never stay still on Dorian’s body.

Long fingers curl around Dorian’s shoulders and push him back until the mage is laid out on his bed with the elf straddling his waist, their groans resounding when Feredir shifts his hips to bring their cocks together in his hands. Dorian fights to keep his eyes open at the first torturous stroke from base to tip, the image of their shafts in Feredir’s hands almost enough to have him spending his pleasure between them. It’s been an age since Dorian enjoyed a good bout of frottage with a bed-mate and Feredir seems keen to recompense him for the long wait, drawing back their foreskins so their cockheads touch before he begins to thrust, keeping his hands still as he ruts against Dorian. 

“By the Gods,” Feredir bites out when one thrust is particularly satisfying, riding the motion of Dorian’s body as the mage’s hips chase the lithe body above him. “You feel so good.”

Dorian moans in response, his mind entirely focussed on the weight of another man in his lap and the sensation of another erection against him; he can feel himself leaking at the tip, the gathering wetness enough to slick Feredir’s thrusts until they’re both gasping from it.          

Too soon, Feredir withdraws before Dorian can find his release, his fingers slightly sticky when he presses them against Dorian’s chest. “Don’t move,” the elf murmurs, all liquid heat, and Dorian is helpless to deny him, watching as the elf raises his hips and takes Dorian’s cock in his hand, holding it poised as he guides the tip between the cheeks of his arse. Dorian has a split second to realise the slickness he feels isn’t his own, right before a tight ring is opening around him, admitting him entrance into the Herald’s body in one long, smooth glide. Air rushes into his lungs with an intensity that leaves the mage lightheaded, Tevene curses dancing on his tongue when Feredir rotates his hips to change the angle of the length inside him.    

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Feredir says quietly, his words breathless as his body begins to find a rhythm. “I used my fingers before, trying to imagine it was you who pierced me, but it wasn’t enough.”   

“ _Fasta Vass,_ if you say another word, this will be over far too soon,” Dorian pants, his hands glued to the Herald’s hips and groaning when Feredir intentionally clenches around him. “I’d have liked to have seen that,” he admits, his toes curling against the mattress when the elf arches his back to take Dorian deeper inside. “Those pretty fingers as they stretched you open.”

“Not far enough,” Feredir says, taking his own erection in one hand and twisting. “Wanted to feel you when you stretched me open the first time. Gods, you’re bigger than anyone I’ve ever had.”

Dorian curses again, the ache in his groin flaring to the point of pain. Given the Herald’s looks, Dorian isn’t surprised that he’s not the first man Feredir has bedded, but the knowledge that other men have taken the elf sends a spike of such intense possession through the mage that he can’t stop himself from growling. His hips thrust up in retort, forcing a cry from the elf which has Dorian yearning to do it again and again, shutting his eyes against the image of moonlight on flushed skin, muscles rippling as the other man gives himself over to the pace Dorian has set.

“ _Pala em elvar’el,”_ Feredir moans, his body snapping down to meet Dorian’s thrusts until the lewd sound of their flesh smacking together resounds in the small hut. Dorian can’t understand a word of the elvish tongue, but he’s guessing he’s on the right track when he brings his knees up for leverage to increase the power behind their fucking, Feredir’s own cries reaching a crescendo as his cock spurts thick jets of come over Dorian’s chest and abdomen.   

Dorian doesn’t stop, pounding into the Herald’s body through his orgasm as he chases his own release. The elf must be oversensitive by now but Dorian can’t make himself withdraw, relishing the way Feredir’s arse clenches around him and chasing sensation until his muscles threaten to seize.

“Do it,” Feredir says suddenly, his face twisting with pleasure/pain but still meeting Dorian’s thrusts, his breath gasping in his chest. “ _Rosa’da’din in’em,_ Dorian. I want you to.”

“Fuck yes,” Dorian groans, the elven lost on him but the intent marvellously clear as Feredir takes him deep, twisting his hips in a way that has Dorian’s vision turning hazy, his completion milked from his cock in spasms that leave him shuddering. Feredir moans above him, a smile curving his lips as he hedonistically clenches that ring of muscle again just to feel Dorian arch beneath him.

The hut is filled with the sound of their panting breaths as they both come down together, small aftershocks shivering through them until Feredir shifts his hips again. Dorian feels his cock slip free, earning another moan from the elf as Dorian’s release begins to trickle from his opening. Feredir doesn’t move any further, leaning down and threading his fingers through Dorian’s hair as he takes the mage’s mouth in another kiss, which just happens to be just a slow and intense as Dorian hoped it was going to be. “Maker, you’re going to be the death of me,” Dorian says against Feredir’s lips, stroking a thumb across the tattoo on the elf’s face, following the branches as they curl under one eye.

“I hope not,” Feredir says, kissing the corner of Dorian’s mouth. “I’ll be sorely disappointed in you if you do.”

“Far be it from me to disappoint the leader of the Inquisition,” Dorian replies, trailing his fingers down Feredir’s back and cupping one buttock, unable to resist a squeeze of such a delectable arse. “Please feel free to use me again at your leisure.”

“The same goes for you,” Feredir says, tapping Dorian on the nose with his index finger in a light reprimand. “Should you ever find yourself wanting, consider it a command to find my person and relieve us in whatever way you see fit.”

_Oh really?_

Well, Dorian has never been one to disobey a direct order.

Smirking, he wraps his arms around Feredir and rolls them over until the elf is flat on his back, looking up at Dorian with wide eyes. “What?” Dorian asks innocently, dragging a finger through the slick between Feredir’s thighs and sinking a finger into the other man without any preamble, eyes fixed on the Herald’s face when the elf’s eyes shine with surprised pleasure. “You weren’t planning on _sleeping_ tonight, were you?”

The groan Feredir gives him before he pulls Dorian’s mouth back to his own is all the answer the mage needs.           

oOo

Dorian bends at the waist, trying to control his breathing and nearly jumping out of his skin when Feredir comes to his side, resting a hand on his shoulders. Maker, but he didn't think it'd ever come to this. 

“Slowly, Dorian,” Feredir says, sounding far too composed for Dorian’s peace of mind, given the death and destruction which surrounds them. “Deep breaths now.”

“Sorry,” Dorian says, waving away the elf’s concerns. “If I’d known we’d be running for our lives against an Arch-demon I’d have made sure I was fit for it.”

Feredir huffs, his eyes quickly taking in their numbers and the condition of their fellow survivors. Dorian’s not sure, but he thinks they managed to save everyone. He hopes they did. “Follow Roderick,” Feredir says, jolting Dorian from his thoughts. “He’ll lead you to safety.”

Dorian watches as Cole leads a dying Roderick to the back of the Chantry where the hidden passageway is, their people following in their wake. It’s a sorry sight, one Dorian hopes to never see again, as Cullen encourages them through until only Feredir and his Inner Circle remain.  

“But what about you?” Dorian asks, looking at the elf in all his blood-splattered glory. “The Elder One will kill you.”

“Thousands more will die if I do nothing,” Feredir says, already guiding Dorian to the back of the Chantry where his advisers are waiting.  

Dorian isn’t satisfied with that. “I won’t leave you behind,” he says, taking the elf’s shoulders in his hands. _I can’t…_

“You can and you will,” Feredir says, reaching up to hold the mage’s face in his hands. “Do this for me, Dorian. Give me something to fight for.”

Dorian shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He’d told himself, _ordered_ himself not to hope for more, but it’s a useless endeavour. He’s too far gone and he’s on the precipice of losing the most important person in his life. It can’t happen this way. He won’t let it.

He pulls Feredir against him, wrapping strong arms around his elf and pressing his mouth to the Herald’s, ignoring the gasps of the Inner Circle behind them. Feredir responds in kind, pressing close to the mage and returning the kiss with equal fervour before forcibly pushing against Dorian to separate them. Panting, the elf reaches into a pocket and presses something into Dorian’s hands, closing the mage’s fingers around it and walking back towards the Chantry doors. “Go,” Feredir says again, his eyes fierce. “Before we all perish.”

Dorian can’t take his eyes away from Feredir as Cullen takes his arm and almost drags him through the passageway, dimly lit by the torches that lead away from Haven. He doesn’t turn until Cullen shuts and bars the door separating them from the Herald, and only then remembers the item pressed into his hand as the Inner Circle guide him to their escape.

Opening his hand under the light of a torch, he chokes back a sob at the last moment, unable to believe his eyes. Gasping, he follows the Herald’s Circle almost blindly, a snipping of Feredir’s long, white hair wrapped in silk held close to his chest.  

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you so much for reading! xxx 
> 
> Please see below for the Elvish phrases used (and gratefully provided by the wonderful FenxShiral and their work on 'Project Elvhen: Expanding the Elvhen Language'): 
> 
> Pala em elvar’el - Fuck me harder  
> Rosa’da’din in’em - Cum inside of me


End file.
